


The Curious Case of the Bath Soap Confessions

by BlazeRiddle



Series: This just sort of happened [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-15
Updated: 2014-10-17
Packaged: 2018-02-21 07:14:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2459546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlazeRiddle/pseuds/BlazeRiddle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has taken to writing on the wall when he's in the bath, but one day there's a message there that neither flatmate is sure what to do with... until they are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Genisis

**Author's Note:**

> This just popped into my head.  
> If you have any other ideas, or requests, or anything, please let me know [here](http://blazeriddle.tumblr.com/ask).

Oh, bloody- "SHERLOCK!!" The doctor stormed into the kitchen, where his friend was seated behind the microscope. "Why the _bloody hell_ is there blood on the bathroom wall?!"

Sherlock shrugged, obviously not listening. The infuriating bastard.

" _Sherlock_!" The man looked up at the Captain's voice, frowning. John saw he was going over the past few minutes in his head.

"It's... not... blood?" the man hesitantly said, studying his -the- doctor's face, hoping he'd found the source of the man's irritation; the relaxing in his features told him he had hit the mark, and he continued. "It's bath paint."

John tilted his head, intrigued now. "Bath paint?"

Sherlock turned back to the microscope. "You're doing it again. I hate it when you do it."

"Sorry, just... Could you maybe explain why we own bath paint and why it is on the wall?" John moved to make tea as he spoke, and Sherlock could see him move behind him in his mind's eye. He was so accustomed to the doctor by now that the small rustles of clothing and movement and life didn't bother him anymore. If anything, it put him at ease for some reason.

"You won't let me take your laptop to the bath." He simply said, turning a dial on his delicate instrument. "I need to take notes."

"Of what?" John asked, not sneering or mocking, but curious of how his friend's brain worked. "The reason people take a bath is usually to relax, not to think." He sat down, moving a cup of tea to the safe zone next to the microscope. Sherlock took it and sipped.

"I do." Sherlock frowned as the steam from the tea clouded the lens and put the mug aside. "I can't just turn off my brain, John. Sometimes I just... think, and I can better write them down before my brain is too relaxed to remember."

"That actually happens?" John sipped his own tea and studied his friend. "You _forget_ things?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I _am_ human." He cleaned the lens and peered through before switching slides. There wasn't much to look at, but it kept him busy.

"People wonder sometimes." A quick glance upwards showed John smirking over his tea. The detective huffed.

"What's it made of, then?"John asked after a moment of companionable silence.

"Soap, food colouring... It's a water-based paste."

"And you write with your fingers? Seems a bit... not you." John shrugged and stood. "Spaghetti for dinner?"

And with that, the matter was settled. Mostly. John did scrub the message - _sulphur and hydrogen,_ probably a shopping list- off the wall after, after sending Sherlock a message with the text. It smelled like the lavender soap Harry had gifted him for Christmas last year, the one he didn't use, and he realised Sherlock probably used it. He didn't mind. The soap was weirdly red as it swirled down the drain.

 

Life pretty much continued like usual after that. They went on cases together, got shot at, John sowed them back together, they took showers and long baths to ease straining muscles and John washed lavender-scented paint off the walls, sometimes softly chuckling at the silliness of it. ( _Need more toes_ was one of his favourites.)

And John indulged in his private pleasures, not able to sustain a girlfriend for the three dates he felt were obligatory before he got what he really needed - the one thing his fast-paced life with a madman didn't provide, though the detective was often the reason his 'relationships' often didn't work out. It didn't really matter, anyway. John would choose -chose- this life over a sex life every day.

The worst part about it all was his dreams. Hot, sweaty, sensual, they were almost worse than the nightmares of desert nightmares. Always dark curls and bright eyes, so different from the women he usually managed to get. He often didn't recall the exact course of the dreams, didn't recall anything but the bright enigmatic eyes and sometimes the dark curls, but he didn't need much to know who he had seen, not when he could recognise the person in the dark with his eyes closed. But that was just his imagination, a product of spending almost every waking moment with the man. It didn't mean anything, just that he needed some stress relief - a new girlfriend, perhaps?

He wasn't going to get one, he knew that, not with Sherlock anywhere near him. People read too much into their relationship, and maybe they had reason to. They were friends -good friends, best friends, even- and colleagues, and flatmates. They shared a life together. John bought their food, they shared expenses, John often cleaned after them both. They didn't lock doors when showering, though that was mostly because the med kit was in the bathroom and Sherlock sometimes needed it at odd times. That was just how things were between them, it didn't mean anything. Being anything of Sherlock Holmes was bound to be odd.


	2. Confessions

Between all the shopping lists and odd notes, there were strange bouts of different-ness. Small drawings of crime scenes or lay-outs of houses. Once or twice, John had found a map of their apartment with a small x where he had spent his time while Sherlock was in the bath. All in all normal, Sherlock-y things.

Until that one, faithful night. They had come home from a long, tiring case and Sherlock had domineered the bathroom after John had taken a short shower, and when John came down the next morning, he saw the message written on the tiles, and it made him freeze in his morning stroll to the lavatory. There, in red letters smeared on the wall, was what made the world stop turning for a moment:

_I think I'm in love_

He didn't send the message to Sherlock before washing it off, but he did snap a picture of it. This was a moment he would never forget, he was sure of it, but just in case, he saved the moment on his phone.

Then he went to pee.

When he came out of the bathroom, Sherlock was at the kitchen table, nursing a coffee and munching on a single piece of toast. He was slumped on a chair in his pyjamas, his hair sticking in all directions, looking debauched as he only ever did right after a case. He yawned a greeting as the doctor moved to boil water.

"Morning. You're eating? Should I make something more nourishing?"

"Hmm. Sounds great." Sherlock's voice was gravelly from sleep and his movements were sluggish as he nursed his coffee. He yawned widely again and John greatly suppressed the urge to ruffle the tangled curls. Instead, he started up the gas and cracked some eggs for omelettes. He was fairly sure Mrs Hudson had stocked the cabinets and fridge after he'd asked the day before, and he found enough supplies to make a full English. He went through the motions automatically, plating two meals and placing one in front of Sherlock along with a fork.

"Had a good night?" John asked, digging down on his plate. Sherlock eyed him curiously, then nodded and followed his friend's example. John frowned at his silence. Normally, Sherlock would complain about the rest his body needed and how bored his brain was during sleep. Not a word about it, this time, though; odd.

Maybe it was about the message. Was Sherlock nervous about how he would react? Worried that he would disapprove, or think less of the man for having sentiment? He had nothing to be afraid of, John knew the idiotic detective was more human than most; he'd seen shimmers of it occasionally. He would be glad if Sherlock found someone to care for him and love him like he deserved, even if -and this pained the doctor a bit- it meant he would eventually leave Baker Street.

"Who is it, then?" He asked around a mouthful of beans. Sherlock looked up at him, eyes wide at first, but his face quickly moved to a mask of confusion.

"Who?"

John rolled his eyes. He was curious, now, and didn't want to let it go. "The message on the wall, Sherlock. Who is it? Who caught your fancy? Who jiggled your things, who-"

"Stop it." Sherlock frowned at him, then huffed. "Crude."

John smirked at him. "Not until you tell me."

Sherlock focussed on his plate, his head bowed down so John could barely see his eyes. "It's none of your business."

"Oh, come on." John picked up his mug and looked at his friend over the rim. "If you don't want me to know, you should've cleaned the wall."

Sherlock stuffed his mouth with beans, ignoring him for a few moments before looking back up. "Any new cases, today?" There was a strange hardness hiding in his eyes, but his face was neutral. John shrugged, dropping the subject for the moment and going over a jewellery theft that had seemed interesting. They slipped into normality quite seamlessly after that.

 

They came home late that night, and John dragged himself to bed and immediately fell into deep slumber. He dreamt about sleek, bouncy curls and long legs covered in expensive pants, pale skin, full lips, a body that had not many feminine traits to it. He woke up with a start, and a pressing problem in the bottoms of his pyjamas. He grunted and fisted his hands in the covers. He remembered more than before of the dream, and somehow that made it all worse. Knowing who the dreams were about and actually remembering it were so, so different. And his problem wasn't going away by itself, either. He sighed deeply, forced himself to picture his latest conquest, and snaked his hand under the covers.

No matter how hard he tried not to think about it, his mind kept wandering to curls and eyes and everything he had been forcing himself not to think about. As his hand moved over his erection, he found no way of keeping his mind away from the images of his dreams, and for once, he didn't stop himself, he just turned and stuffed his pillow in his mouth as the memory of a familiar face relaxed in a blissful sigh brought him to his climax.

Guilt overflowed him as he came down form it all. He wiped his hand on his sheets and rubbed his face with his other one. _What the fuck is wrong with me? Where the hell did this come from?_ He closed his eyes. _Why is this happening?_ His stomach growled and he realised he'd skipped dinner the night before. _Breakfast. Tea might clear my mind._ He got up and changed his bottoms, then turned his pillow and yawned. There was no way Sherlock wouldn't know what happened if he was downstairs, but maybe he could hide of whom he had been thinking. Just maybe.

Silence met him when he walked into the kitchen; everything indicated that the detective hadn't yet roused from slumber. Trying to be normal, John did what his sometimes did when a case had finished successfully: He chucked every leftover in the house into a Full English, trying to make sure Sherlock would eat at least half of it. When he had the coffee brewing, he heard a stumble from his friend's room, the door opened and bounced against the wall with a slightly uncontrolled force, and Sherlock came stumbling out. It was a rare sight, the detective so barely awake that he was still a bit clumsy with sleep, his dressing gown slipped down over one bare shoulder and curls ruffled from his pillow. John cherished the moment, and couldn't help but picture a much younger and tinier version of the man, clad in cartoon pyjamas and trailing a teddy bear behind him while rubbing his eye.

"Whatever you're thinking, stop it." The Detective grumbled, and then he _did_ rub his eye, and John just barely suppressed a giggle, turning to plate breakfast so he could hide his smile.

"Hungry?" He didn't really wait for an answer before he placed a full plate and some cutlery in front of the man on the table. "Coffee's coming up."

Sherlock grumbled something in thanks and started eating without a fuss. John could see the edges of a dark bruise on his chest, a remnant of yesterday's case.

"You okay?"

Sherlock rubbed his chest, then closed the robe a bit tighter around himself. "Just a bruise."

"Good." The doctor sat down with his own plate. It seemed that the detective couldn't, or hadn't, read his morning activities from his face or demeanour. It seemed that, at least for a little while, everything would be all right.


	3. Molly (Or: Revelations)

"You're hiding something." Sherlock mumbled a few nights later. He was laying on the couch in his thinking pose, eyes closed and hands under his chin. John looked up from the Stephen King novel he was reading and frowned.

"Excuse me?" John studied his unmoving friend. Though the dreams -and the troubles they brought- had consisted, he thought he had been doing a good job at hiding it. But who was he kidding? He couldn't fool _Sherlock Holmes_. Still, it had been nice while it lasted, whatever _it_ was. Maybe he could stall the disastrous deductions until he himself had figured out what _it_ was.

"You've been hiding something from me."

He raised his eyebrows. "Have I?"

Sherlock opened his eyes and turned his head, his piercing gaze focussed on his friend. "You spend less time on average in the same room with me, you avert your eyes approximately thirteen percent quicker, you've finished three of those ridiculous books in the past four days. You're trying to avoid me. Why would you want to avoid me? Because you're hiding something."

"Well, I'm not the only one." John closed his book, knowing this would be a conversation that would take a while, be possibly extremely confusing, and would possibly end in him storming upstairs.

Sherlock sat up. "What do you mean?"

"You still haven't told me." He tried to keep his face as neutral as possible, tried to ignore the rumble of _something_ that settled in his underbelly.

"What-oh." Sherlock, for once, was the one to look away. John could see his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. "That's-" His eyes fluttered shut and he swallowed again before he forced himself to look back, the bright eyes slightly pained. "It's... quite personal, and-" He swallowed again. The thing in John's stomach grew heavy.

"Yeah, no, sure." He managed. "I don't mind. You don't have to tell me. I mean, you can ruin all _my_ dates and deny _me_ any right on a personal life, but _you_ can have a crush you don't tell me about, right?"

"It's not a _crush_." He snarled. "I- this..." He groaned in frustration and stood, started pacing the room. "You know the person. It would only be awkward." He said it as he stopped in front of the doctor. The man shrugged. "I know almost everyone you spare more than a glance. Does it matter?"

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut in frustration and flailed his hands, the way he did when John missed a major detail on a case. "Yes!"

"Why, then? You knew every single one of my dates, eventually."

"That ended well." The detective replied sarcastically, but there was something off about him. If he weren't Sherlock Holmes, John would've said he was nervous. He made one more lap around the room then went to grab his coat. "I need to- I'll be at the morgue." He was gone before John could answer.

John went to make himself tea. _Someone he knew, then._ He settled in his chair, thinking. _Using the powers of deductions. Who is he close enough to to feel... that? Who did we meet the day before the message?_ He went over the day in his head, but as far as he knew, nothing special happened. They'd spent most of the day in the laboratory of the morgue, testing some samples Sherlock had found, with Molly fluttering around them.

 _Surely not... Molly? No..._ John frowned at the churning in his stomach. What was _that_ about? He decided to ignore it and go over the evidence once more. Molly was around Sherlock a lot. The detective often appeared distant and dismissive, but he was with many people, so it didn't really mean anything. She seemed to like him, tolerate his oddities and quirks, and she seemed to want to be around him, and Sherlock didn't mind being around her. Just now, when the conversation with John had turned nasty, he'd gone to console himself in the morgue.

_Oh, god, it is Molly._

A sick feeling settled in the pit of his stomach, the same as before, only stronger. He decided not to finish his tea and go upstairs for an early night's rest. Maybe the dream would stay away this night.

 

After hours of tossing and turning, of not hearing Sherlock come home and of feeling the sickness intensify to a real stomach ache, after hours of curling up under the blankets thinking of Sherlock with some woman, even _Molly_ , and nearly not being able to hold back the tears -of pain, he told himself, his stomach felt like a stone, he finally was able to admit it to himself.

He was not entirely straight. And his feelings towards a certain Sherlock Holmes were not entirely platonic.

He, John Watson, was in love with his flatmate.

But it didn't matter, anyway. His flatmate was in love, and not with him.

 

He allowed himself to cry.

He didn't sleep much that night.


	4. Impulses

Sherlock still hadn't returned when John roused from his fitful sleep early in the morning and came downstairs. He moved to the bathroom to take a shower and decided to use Sherlock's expensive shampoo just to spite him. As he put it back on the edge of the bath after a short rinse, he noticed the small container with the dark red soapy substance next to it. After a moment's debate, he picked it up.

 

It was noon when Sherlock stormed in. John had just started a new novel and ignored him as he rummaged the kitchen. Tubes clanged and the fridge opened, but John tightened his hands around the paperback and steadfastly ignored the man. He'd made a mistake, it looked like a good idea at the time, but now he was terrified. This was the stupidest thing he'd ever done. Now, if he could only make his legs cooperate and take him to the bathroom, he could erase-

"John!" _Sherlock_. His voice was coming from the _bathroom_. John felt his heart stop, drop and roll over the floor to come to a stop somewhere near the fireplace.

He could hear the detective come over, heard the tapping of Italian shoes on the floor drawing nearer. He kept his eyes on the book stubbornly.

"You're not really reading." The low baritone was more amused than accusing. John looked up and glared at the man looming over him.

"Did you use the bath paint?" There was something in his voice that made him look back down at his book.

"What do you mean?" He reread the first line on the page, something about a woman, but he couldn't focus on it, so he reread until ten long fingers took the book from him and placed it closed on the side table. He looked up at the man sheepishly. Two bright colourful eyes stared back.

"Did you paint on the wall of the bath room with my bath paint?"

John swallowed. Why was the git asking? There was no denying. "Yes." With cold shock, the doctor thought back at what he'd done; the bathroom walls, now stained in a blood red confession:

_Me too._

Sherlock nodded, seemed to deflate a little. He sat down in his armchair, opposite to John.

"This is what you've been hiding." Sherlock carded a hand through his curls. His voice was... different. "You wouldn't hide it if it were a _woman_ , unless it were a choice you'd think I'd disapprove of, somehow. You're not _into_ older ladies nor have you been spending any time with Mycroft's assistant as of late... So is it a man?" One glance at John's reddening face told the detective everything he needed to know. " _Oh._ " His eyes widened. "Bi-curious. There's always something I miss, is there?" The breaths of air felt like strokes of a hammer to John's chest. "Who is it, then? Must be someone we know, someone you hang out with a lot, to trigger this kind of response... Lestrade, maybe? Though you never do show much more than platonic interest in him, that could've changed. Angelo? No, you don't see him enough, I think... Oh, God, Anderson? Or maybe-"

"Shut up, Sherlock." It was uttered from between clenched teeth, with a haze of unshed tears in his eyes. He couldn't take this. He couldn't take Sherlock listing every single man he knew with that cold, dethatched voice of his, even when something sounded off about it, even if it sounded as if he was forcing the emotions out of his voice, even when he had a strange, unfamiliar glint in his eyes-

"Just shut the fuck up. Can't you just... Go and _have fun_ with Molly, or something?" He stood abruptly, not wanting to break down _now_ , not in front of _him_ , and ran up the stairs, slamming the door of his room shut with a bang.

Life couldn't get much worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's read, and commented, and left kudos! I'm not very good at commenting back, but I love you all, you're all very nice <3  
> I think there's only one or two more chapters left, depending on if I am going to try my hand at smut.. I'm not sure yet. Let me know what you guys think? :)


	5. Relevations (Or: The happy end)

"You think it's Molly." The rich baritone stated from where the door was supposed to be shut. John ignored the man, curling up tighter on himself, his back to the door. He heard the other man move closer, heard him sit down on the edge of the bed. "Not a completely unfounded deduction. I do spend a lot of time around the woman. She is bearable to be around, and we did spend time together on the day I realised how deep my sentiments go."

John squeezed his eyes shut. "Do you _have_ to rub it in?" he growled.

"Though not unfounded, your deductions are completely invalid." There was something calming in his voice, something that made the doctor uncurl, though he still didn't dare look at his friend. Instead, he glared at the wall.

"As usual, I'm an idiot." He bit out. A hand tentatively brushed his shoulder, moving from his arm up to the crook of his neck and back. The touch was so sudden John whipped his head around to stare at his friend. The detective, unexpectedly, smiled down at him, something warm and sincere.

"There you are." He mumbled before straightening his eyes narrowed. "you don't see it, do you?" Once again, the words were more amused than irritated. John swallowed. The git seemed so certain of himself. With great effort, the doctor managed to seem irritated and roll his eyes.

"We don't all have a brain that can work major life issues out in-" he glanced at his clock "-under twenty minutes." He grumbled. Sherlock quirked a brow.

"All right." He made a hand gesture. "Let's pretend you can. An exercise in deduction. Who am I in love with? Since that's the _major life issue_ we don't both know the answer to."

"Sherlock, I really don't want-"

"Humour me." And there was something in his eyes, something in his voice, that made John do exactly that.

He took a deep breath, steeling himself. "Okay. Right. You - to fall in love with someone, you'd have to spend time with a person. You don't easily like people, so there aren't many options. You write on the wall when you suddenly realise things, so something that happened that day... triggered... _it_."

"Indeed. Who was I with that day? Think."

John closed his eyes, trying to recall the events of that day. "We'd been wrapping up a case. I bullied you into toast for breakfast, then _Mrs Hudson_ came up to ask if we needed groceries, since she was going anyway, and then we went to the morgue. _Greg -_ Lestrade- called you on the way there, then we spent most of the day around _Molly_ , but she isn't it, and then you solved the case and we went to Angelo's. Angelo?" John frowned, not liking this game. He knew, Sherlock had just _told_ him, that the detective realised how terrible it was for him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Not Angelo. _Think_ , John. Who have I been around all day that day? Who do I know well enough to fall in love with? Who do I put up with, _gladly_ , and who puts up with me?"

"But you already said it wasn't Moll-" A finger on his lips stopped him as Sherlock kept talking, his tone kind and amused.

"Who is willing to spend time just being there while I work at a microscope, waiting for me to come with _something_? Who accepts that I don't care for social conventions, and cares for them instead? Who makes my tea? Who bullies me into caring for myself, even on cases sometimes? Who is always there, no matter how stupid I am, right at my side? Who always brings those nice biscuits from Tesco's, even though he hates them, only because he knows I love them?"

John stared up at the man, stunned. He had no words for the revelations just offered to him, the words would be choked on tears, so he just stared up into those enigmatic eyes for a little while.

"You noticed?" He stuttered eventually. "The... digestives?"

Sherlock chuckled. "Shut up, you colossal idiot." And he leaned down to press his lips against the doctor - _his_ doctor. It was not much, but John pressed up into it, wrapped his arms around the detective - _his_ detective and pulled him closer.

Sherlock pulled away only to stare deeply into his eyes. "You know my secret." He whispered. "Now tell me yours."

John frowned, confused. "You already know."

"Tell me." Sherlock placed a kiss on his jaw. "Please?"

John lifted his partner's head. He stared into the light eyes, gaze running over the defined cheekbones, the plump lips, his, now, his to kiss, his to cherish, and he couldn't find the words. He let his hands run over the cheekbones and swallowed. "You first."

Sherlock placed a kiss on his forehead, then on his eyes, his nose. His mouth. Nothing more than a press of lips upon lips.

"I love you, John Watson." The words closed off John's throat, but Sherlock's eyes were glistening too, so it didn't matter. It didn't matter that his voice cracked or that tears welled up when he returned the sentiment.

"And I love you, Sherlock Holmes." To prevent the tears from coming, he seized his mouth again. Sherlock sighed, parting his lips and letting his tongue tease at the seam of John's lips. John let him in, gladly. This, this was how it was supposed to be. Sherlock swept his tongue over his teeth, behind them, seemed to inspect and memorise every inch of his mouth and it was marvellous. John gasped, lost that marvellous mouth on his but it didn't matter because it travelled lower, left a wet trail over his jaw, his neck and _oh_ , sucked at his pulse point, and John moaned, because that was just _amazing_. He ran his hands over defined shoulders, a long neck, pulled that marvellous mouth back to his, devoured it hands moving up and down over his friend's back as Sherlock gripped his face but _damn it_ , too many clothes, he needed less layers, more contact, because he'd dreamed of this and finally, _finally_ he could feel it and he wondered if he even was awake, but then Sherlock nipped at his bottom lip and confirmed it, confirmed it was real, this was happening and they were both wearing _too much clothes_.

Sherlock broke the kiss, pushed Sherlock away only to tear at his buttons, too damn small, and Sherlock took the hint, moved to help him out, but instead just ripped the shirt open, buttons flying everywhere and one nearly hitting the good doctor in the eye. Sherlock chuckled, pressed a kiss where the button had hit his doctor's cheekbone, then proceeded to deftly unbutton his shirt, too. They both sat up, lips still connected, and shrugged their shirts off. Sherlock lay them both back down, licking down his collarbones and shoulders as if he were ice cream, tasting every piece of skin and sucking, biting, analysing every piece of skin. John gasped as a tongue swept over his injured scar, nerves strangely sensitive at the places he decided to mouth at. His body was on fire. He moaned as Sherlock moved lower, licked one of his nipples and sucked, rolling his tongue over it and then resting his head on his sternum to blow cool breaths over it. John sighed and flexed his hand in Sherlock's curls. Now how did that end up there?

"I want to taste everything of you." Sherlock whispered, glancing up at him without moving his head. His tongue darted out to draw a circle around the hardened nub. His hand slowly trailed down, down, over the waistband of John's jeans, cupping the hardness between his legs. "Everything."

John's mouth went dry, and he decided to cure it by kissing that fantastic man again. "Oh, god, yes." Sherlock huffed a laugh and started kissing his way down again, stopping to bite at an earlobe, a collar bone, a neglected nipple. He licked a trail down the slight softness of his belly, sucked a love bite right above a belly button, all the while John whimpered and moaned and flexed his hands in black curls and the sheets, thrashing and panting because that felt _so_ good and _oh god,_ he's going down further, and he felt like he was going to have a heart attack and then Sherlock dipped his tongue in his belly button and followed the small trail of hairs down and then his hands and mouth were resting at his waistband and-

"Please, Sherlock- _god_ -" And Sherlock chuckled and removed his mouth and that was just unfair, but then he came up for another kiss and he tasted like sweat and skin but it was _delicious_ and those hands were unbuttoning his belt-

"Lift your hips." The detective stared his big, bright eyes into his, all there but all consumed with lust, all for him, all _his_ now, and John had complied without realising and then Sherlock was on his way down again, licking and biting at fresh marks, but being much quicker about it than the first times around.

And not stopping at his waist. He licked a stripe where the elastics of his pants had left a mark, and it tickled, and John moaned because next he was attacking the inside of his thigh and kissing _so close_ , and then it was there, that warm, wet muscle trailing up his shaft and circling around his head and - _oh god_ , John cried out, moaned, tried desperately not to move in fear of it leaving, and then it left and a face was pressed right next to his hard length and Sherlock was _breathing him in_ , and then the detective moaned as if he was the best smell in the world and then the tongue was back, licking a long stripe from his base to his tip and licking away the bead that had formed on the top and then Sherlock engulfed him and sucked s if he contained the essence of life and John very nearly shouted because _hell,_ that felt _perfect_ , all wet, hot heat and swirling talented tongue and when Sherlock started bobbing his head, John was suddenly embarrassingly close and he tried to pull Sherlock off, tried to warn him, but the man just hummed and sucked just _that bit_ harder and John screwed his eyes shut and tightened his fingers in the dark curls and exploded in his mouth and _screamed_.

" _Sherlock!_ "

 

When he came back to his own body and managed to open his eyes, he found Sherlock looking up at him, wiping the corner of his mouth, eyes dark circles of lust. He looked beautiful. John gripped his shoulders, pulled him up to his face, smiled at him before kissing him, tasting himself on his lips. Sherlock ground against his thigh and groaned, and John sneaked his hand between them, cupping the hardness he found and tried to give more friction. Sherlock moaned, the kiss turned sloppy, and he stilled, and John felt the wetness stain the expensive trousers as bright eyes stared into his. Sherlock huffed out a breath through his nose and went slack above him, pressing him into the mattress. John wrapped his arms around him.

"That was amazing." He pressed a kiss in the curls.

"Hmm."

"You all right, Love."

"Hmm." Sherlock lifted his head to look at him. "Say that again?"

"I love you." He manoeuvred them both so they were a bit more comfortable. He could feel the dampness bleed through Sherlock's trousers onto his skin, and he was being pressed into the mattress not quite comfortably, but everything was all right, and everything would be all right for years to come.

He couldn't be happier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! Wow. This got way more popular than I could ever expect. Thank you all so much for all the love and comments and views! I love you all, and you all gave me enough motivation to finish this in a week. I love you all. Really.  
> Also, thanks to user CaseyCas for commenting that if I want to write a part, I should just do it. It might not seem like much, but your comment convinced me to up the rating. :)  
> I already have an idea for a next story, so don't worry, more is coming! :)


End file.
